


Limestone & Brass

by Whispering_Sumire



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (I did my best), (just a bit), (sort of), Alternate Hale Fire (Teen Wolf), Alternate Universe - Human, BAMF Stiles, Christmas, Communication, Companionable Snark, Creeper Derek Hale, Deputy Derek Hale, Derek Hale Needs To Use His Words, Dorks in Love, Drama, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ficlet, Fluff, Getting Together, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Neglect, Laura Hale Lives, Light Angst, M/M, Miscommunication, Overprotective Derek Hale, Panic Attacks (mentioned), Pining, Sass, Scott is a Good Friend, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:54:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21975424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Whispering_Sumire/pseuds/Whispering_Sumire
Summary: "May I ask," Derek takes a moment to breathe, "why?"Stiles scoffs. "Why do you care, dude? I mean, it's not like the dislike isn't mutual."There is a silence, long and heavy, in which Derek stares out at the road and wonders if he really is so inept at showing his emotions externally.I'm in love with you,Derek thinks,how on earth did you get that so wrong? How on earth didIget that so wrong? Where did I fuck up?"Oh," Stiles says, all surprise and brief wonder. "It... isn't. Is it?"(Or: The one where Derek struggles with his words, Stiles struggles to be recognised for his abilities, and Scott Ships It)
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 56
Kudos: 2037





	Limestone & Brass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleRedMischief](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleRedMischief/gifts).



> Content Warning: The Hale Fire is a thing, but lesser than canon, and only briefly mentioned. Stiles curses like a drunk sailor. Very vague implications/mentions of neglect, alcohol abuse, and panic attacks. _Extremely handwavey legalities,_ I don't know shit about shit when it comes to that sort of thing, so it is super vague and probably still incorrect, lol

The only thing that Derek Hale has going for him, Stiles thinks with a particular kind of violence, is his eyes.

Sure, he looks like the male equivalent of Galatea: sculpted from marble sometime during ancient Greece at the hands of a desperately horny guy who was in some serious need of therapy. But he's also got the Achilles' of all anger management issues, is a laconic, taciturn asshole who once spent all day speaking in iambic pentameter just to prove a goddamn point, and: having a figure that would make Adonis run weeping doesn't save you from having a shitty personality.

His eyes don't save him either, really, but where him being hot like burning immediately sours upon any minute interaction—those _eyes._

Maybe it's because he shares them with a good portion of his extended family, and so Stiles can imagine them on a kinder face supported by a more becoming temper. Maybe it's because, occasionally, if he's not speaking or generally acting like a complete douche, his eyes take on this soft, seeped, lost look that Stiles half believes is an optical illusion or a hallucination or some other, equally disbelieving thing.

Stiles once did a really in-depth essay on limestone caves and, in laymen's terms, why they're so goddamn _sparkly_ for Econ. Coach wasn't amused—Coach is never amused, actually, despite that manic grin he's always sporting (ha). Like, he'll bark his sharp, strung-out laugh, but it's always either mocking or that twisted, self-flagellating conceit of his that makes him so oddball endearing. 

Stiles has a running contest with himself to see if he can crack Coach's sense of humour before the end of the school year. So far, no dice, but he swears he made his lips twitch with honest mirth last Wednesday.

Anyway, Derek's eyes are kind of like the calcite crystals in limestone when it's just beginning to contemplate becoming marble. Condense that down, drip a droplet of it onto the freshest foliage, impress it into somebody's irises, and you have the ethereal beauty of the Hale broods' eyes.

Scott suggests they try to make friends because he overheard that Derek is melodramatically _shy_ and, like the paragon of goodness and gullibility that he is, he _believed_ it.

Stiles is forced to explain all of the above in exaggerated detail. There may or may not be a powerpoint presentation involved. At the end of which he says, "In short: I will never, ever be friends with Derek Hale."

Scott's expression is split right down the middle, stuck on the perfect precipice between bursting out laughing and that I'm Very Disappointed In You Right Now lemon-face he totally inherited from his Mom.

"Look, whatever crazy story you heard from your totally reputable source—"

"Cora," Scott reminds him. "My source is _Cora,_ man, come on."

"—I've actually had to spend more than five minutes with him in close quarters, okay? His whole aura screams serial-killer, he's always snapping at me like he's my unwanted and unwarranted guard dog, and I bet he'd probably snub _puppies_ if he could get away with it. I'm pretty sure he doesn't even _like_ you, Scott! You! Seriously," Stiles flaps a hand to underline how exceptionally impossible it should be for anyone to feel anything negative about Scott, ever, _"you."_

Scott narrows his eyes and says, "Hmm." Which never, ever bodes well.

You see, it's easy for most people to get caught up in Scott's bone-deep convictions and all-inclusive empathy, easy for his sweet-bright ingenuity to either go over their heads or seem too endearing to possibly be dangerous. Stiles knows better.

"Scott," Stiles says, because his best friend can be _scary_ when he wants to be, let no one tell you different. "Whatever you're thinking of doing. Don't. Do it."

Scott keeps his face bland and his eyes wide and innocent, but that's as good as a sly smirk on him, and: goddamn it, Stiles is screwed, isn't he?

* * *

Here is how Stiles and Derek met:

Whenever there's a new Deputy at the station, they're always told by all the other officers who have been forced to pass the same initiation that the Jeep's in the shop and/or Stiles is grounded and Sheriff Stilinski can't pick him up, so could the new Deputy drive him home from school pretty please with a cherry on top?

And so the new guy cuts their teeth on Stiles' brutal interrogation tactics, because they've got to learn how to deal with the Sheriff's kid sooner or later and it's better to know if they'll run away crying right out of the gate. Honestly, if Stiles can make them cry they're not fit to be a Deputy in Beacon fucking Hills, anyway.

Derek falls for the hazing tradition, as they all do.

Their first conversation goes something like this:

"Fuckin' new guy, huh? Oh, hey! I think your sister's in my class. Deputy Hale, Cora Hale—I helped her with math once. She is, like, offensively bad at it. You any good at math, newbie? If you are, you should totally tutor her, dude, your baby sister could use all the help she can get."

"..."

"Yeah, no, I think I'm seein' the family resemblance. You both have... very intense... eyebrows."

"..."

"So, what made you decide to be a Deputy? Wait, no, don't answer that. That's a lame, boring, vanilla question and I'm gonna vibrate outta my skin if you spend the next hour trying to answer it. Parrish did that, y'know? And now he's on diet duty. No one wants to be on diet duty. My Dad is _savage_ when he's hangry."

"..."

"C'mon, not even a smile? What are you, a robot?"

In this particular silence, a look is thrown. It is a very, very bitchy look. It receives a face in turn, as is its' due.

"Whatever. You'll be thanking me when your boss doesn't have a heart attack on the job."

Mock-credulous slanted eyebrows that are not conducive to the conversation whatsoever and do not count as a valid contribution. Or an appreciated contribution, for that matter.

Stiles moves on to more interesting things, as is his wont. He roughshods through the history of candycanes for a good three blocks, a topic that somehow mutates into wild speculations about their friendly, neighbourhood vandal: the newest and highest interest criminal in Beacon Hills at present. Seeing as Deputy Hale is apparently a functioning mute, Stiles inevitably strings his own composite assumptions out of piecemeal intel he's acquired from—well.

That's need to fucking know, which is something Derek should be able to appreciate, right? After all, he hasn't spoken a single word throughout this entire goddamn drive.

Except at the very end, when he says, "You should leave it alone."

"... What?"

"You're smart. Maybe use that to _avoid_ danger, instead of the other way around."

Demonstrating a truly monumental amount of maturity, Stiles slams the passenger door in Derek Hale's stupid face instead of cursing him the fuck out.

Firstly, they're practical strangers, what Stiles does in his free time isn't Derek's goddamn issue. Secondly, Derek is an asshole. Thirdly, Stiles has been helping out with cases since he was seven years old, he knows what he's doing, who the fuck is newbie Deputy Derek fucking Hale to question that? Fourthly, Derek is an _asshole._

This opinion is not cemented on their first meeting. It's cemented after a whole week of newbie Deputy Derek fucking Hale taking that one-time assignment too seriously: as in, he keeps picking Stiles up from school.

Even though Stiles doesn't actually need picking up and has a car of his own, thanks.

But the friendly neighbourhood vandal is escalating and Stiles' Dad thinks that this is absolutely _hilarious,_ so he's apparently stuck with it.

Yeah, well. Fuck that.

After three weeks of knowing each other, Stiles is at an 11-10 in the being caught trying to ditch his unwanted goddamn ride department, and the ratio is only so even because the newbie Deputy used Cora against him and Cora is a _menace._

She is so much worse than her brother. She's friends with Lydia Martin. She is objectively terrifying.

At the start of the fourth week, Stiles cracks the case. 

It's half an accident, but he figures it out while he's ranting at Derek's solemn statue impersonation after being chased down three blocks in the wrong direction only to be shoved into a car that will take him to an empty building that he can leave under his own power whenever he damn well pleases. He doesn't tell Derek about this moronic redundancy, mostly because he suspects that Derek would use it as an excuse to set up patrols outside of the Stilinski household. 

Like Stiles is made of glass or something.

Anyway, he figures it out. He wants to do something about it with an urgency that nearly overwhelms him, newbie Deputy Derek fucking Hale wants him sequestered safely at home and states several times without ever saying it out loud that he thinks Stiles is a fucking idiot. 

Stiles subverts the impasse and makes a deal: there's a chance his theory won't pan out, right? So don't tell the Sheriff. Stiles will go home quietly, as long as Derek promises to check out the suspect himself.

Derek's expression rivals a tundra. Still, he agrees, and drops Stiles off.

Stiles doesn't trust him a centimetre, and steals Scott's bike because he knows for a fact that he can get there faster without a big bulky car that has to stay on the road and pay attention to speed limits. He's _right._

About both that, and where he'd guessed the base of operations might be, who he'd guessed the suspect might be. Goddamn, but he's _right._

It feels good. And then terrifying, because their friendly neighbourhood vandal freaks the fuck out and tries to hold Stiles at knife-point. Stiles chatters about the dude's knife-collection, about taxidermy, affecting sympathy and arrogance in turn. 

He has always been excellent at distraction and deflection.

Derek fucking Hale whacks friendly neighbourhood vandal on the back of the head with the butt of his gun before Stiles can get much more than a nick on his throat. Hooray, for the good guys!

 _"Stiles,"_ Derek fucking Hale says, eyes sparking like flint being struck by steel, "what the hell were you thinking?"

Need to fucking know, Derek fucking Hale.

Lucky, he managed to pocket what he needed before Derek could get here. And, hey, he avoided getting stabbed, didn't he? Good day.

His Dad doesn't quite agree with that assessment, but is more along the lines of resigned and exasperated than violently grumpy (unlike a certain Deputy). This is far from the first time Stiles has been found at a crime scene, after all.

And they got their guy, confession signed sealed and delivered, so all's well. Relatively.

Derek still insists on driving Stiles home from school. Because he is _awful._

* * *

Derek is in love with the Sheriff's son.

He doesn't know when or how or even _why_ it happened, exactly. But he thinks it may've started with Stiles' eyes.

When Derek was little, he remembers going to some school thing Laura was in. She'd been a part of her High School orchestra, trombone player: he remembers the sun splashing across the brass as she played her heart out. The exhilaration, mingled slightly with discomfit because the crowd had been so big, and twisted around thrilled pride. That's what Stiles' eyes remind him of, that moment, that feeling, and sun-soaked brass.

There is a conundrum in this: Stiles is his boss' son, and is still a handful of months away from outgrowing being a minor. Also, Stiles has an exceptionally low consideration for his own personal safety.

He is too stubborn and too clever for his own good, won't listen to any warnings or worries or otherwise, and runs headfirst into danger as if he were invincible. He is _not_ invincible.

Derek wishes, occasionally, that he could just shake some sense into him. Unfortunately, he's fairly certain that wouldn't work even if he tried it.

Troublesome brat.

And what's worse is, that's a part of it. All of Stiles' sharp-bite clever, his sarcasm and his eagerness. He's enthralling, picking at every thread until he finds the correct snag and pulls it free, unravels the mystery—and he does that with _everything:_ people, situations, random trivia.

He does that with _Derek._

It takes him a week to learn how to interpret the silences, the expressions, the body language. It's been a long time since Derek's felt confident enough with anyone to banter in any way shape or form, and it's been _fun._

Spending time with Stiles is fun.

He feels... greedy. He wants more. And he also wants to be assured that he won't be seeing this loveable brat of his in the godsdamned _morgue_ anytime soon. 

For Eir's sake, Stiles.

* * *

Here is how Derek inevitably learns that there are a few gaps in his knowledge and some probably glaring complications:

"Oh, man," Laura says, after Derek has started accidentally waxing what amounts to poetic for him, "you're totally in love with that kid, aren't you?"

Derek immediately goes very still and very quiet, which is about the same as shouting YES! enthusiastically from the rooftops. Laura heaves a heavy sigh, but she's smiling.

Then, Cora: "Wow. That must suck for you."

Derek levies her with a slow blink. Laura braces a hand on her hip and cocks her head, wild inky curls slipping from behind her ear to shadow her face as she asks, deceptively calm, "Why on _earth_ would you say that?"

Cora raises her eyebrows and juts out her chin, all teenage rebellion, I'm not afraid of you, but answers, "Because the guy fucking hates him."

"What," Derek cuts in, with no small amount of alarm. To any person who did not know him, his voice would merely sound indifferently flat and blank. The question mark is heavily implied, you just can't hear it.

"Stiles," Cora says, her special brand of defiant underlined with apologetic. "He thinks you're an asshole. He, uh, complains about you a lot. Loudly."

"Well," Laura says, as Derek processes the emotional equivalent of missing a stair and cracking your head on the floor, "then he doesn't deserve you, baby brother. Badmouthing you like that—and Cora," her grin is the purr of a lion who's just slaughtered a nice meal, "you've just let him, hmm? Complain. _Loudly."_

Cora makes a face, then says, "Come on. I'd look fucking stupid."

Laura glares her very best glare.

"Ugh," laments Cora.

Laura returns to grinning, and claps her hands as if that's the end of that, job well done.

"Do you know," Derek asks haltingly. If they weren't familiar with him, they'd think his tone wrathful. As it is, both of their looks convey varying levels of sympathy. "Why."

Cora shrugs.

Gods damn it.

Derek and Stiles' first conversation after the one above goes something like this:

"What the hell, dude?" As Stiles slams his way into the cruiser. He didn't even bother with their usual game of hide and seek, today. "You sicced your feral little sister on me." But his frustration is vague, blurred by something implacable.

Ah. Derek scowls as he pulls out of the High School parking lot. Before he has the chance to explain anything, or chastise Stiles for calling Cora feral (though that is... surprisingly apt), Stiles groans and rolls his eyes so hard his head rolls with them.

"Whatever," he grouses, and starts decimating the subject of salt, how to obtain it organically, how to use it, etcetera, and does Derek even know how to cook?

"Do _you?"_ Derek snipes, without thinking.

"Sure," Stiles chirps. "If I didn't, my family would be forced to sustain itself on deep-fried oil and grease. Which is both unhealthy and just plain rude."

"Rude?"

"How would your tastebuds and cholesterol feel if you subsisted on a diet of cheap take-out and cold pizza? Fucking _insulted,_ is how. Think you could maintain that figure under those circumstances? No, sirree. And bad health in a cop works in petty crime's favour. I did the world a service, learning how to cook, trust me."

"Uh-huh," Derek says, dryer than dust.

"Oh, fuck you. I could probably out-cook a three-star chef, if I tried."

"Sure," deadpan.

Stiles mutters threats and self-assurances under his breath.

Derek flexes his hands on the wheel. "You," he starts. Stops. Breathes. Doesn't quite know how to continue.

"Yeah, chatter-box? I'm listening."

That doesn't make communication any less difficult, you brat.

"You. Don't like me."

Stiles seems to falter at that, momentarily. Winces a shrug. "Not really."

"May I ask," Derek takes a moment to breathe, "why?"

Stiles scoffs. "Why do you care, dude? I mean, it's not like the dislike isn't mutual."

There is a silence, long and heavy, in which Derek stares out at the road and wonders if he really is so inept at showing his emotions externally. _I'm in love with you,_ Derek thinks, _how on earth did you get that so wrong? How on earth did **I** get that so wrong? Where did I fuck up?_

"Oh," Stiles says, all surprise and brief wonder. "It... isn't. Is it?"

Derek grimaces. Pulls up to the curb outside of the Stilinski house. "When I was sixteen," he says, because it is paradoxically easy to start there. Not where the feelings began, but where the seed for them was planted. "My parents died in a fire that. Someone I trusted—thought I could trust." 

Maybe not as easy as he thought. _Breathe._

"Thought I loved. A fire someone I thought I loved set. Your Father sat with my sisters and I for a long time. You. Were there. You gave me a Reese's Cup." He clears his throat, flexes his fingers on the wheel, clenches them around it until his knuckles turn white. "That's why I became a Deputy."

Stiles sucks in a sharp breath, stares. His brass-gleam eyes are very, very wide. He swallows twice. "Um. Okay, wow. I didn't—."

For a brief moment Derek thinks, _ha._ It's a very rueful thought. Look who's struggling with words, now, chatter-box.

"It's okay," he says. And, "We're here."

"Ye—yeah. Thanks, I, um. Hey, look. I'm, I'm sorry. For, you know, talking shit about you at school, I was just being," he waves a hand around his scrunched up face meaningfully as he yanks his backpack up from the footwell and begins climbing out of the car. "A petty, immature teenager. I'll stop. It was pretty stupid, anyway."

Derek nods, struck mute again by the sentiment, but he does his very best to gentle his expression. He has no idea how well it works.

Stiles lours a little, trips away from the car, rights himself, closes the passenger door without slamming it for the first time in their whole acquaintance, and ambles toward his house. 

Derek waits until Stiles is safely inside before he drives away.

* * *

So, turns out that friendly neighbourhood vandal was caught up in some really nasty shit.

Stiles can't say he's surprised. He is, however, one of the only people equipped with this knowledge. Mostly because when he tried to tell his Dad he was met with an irritating amount of scepticism. Then, when he showed his Dad _proof_ \- proof that Stiles filched from the goddamn vandal himself - he got himself very grounded (expected), a semi-permanent chauffeur to and from school in one newbie Deputy Derek fucking Hale (less expected, but Stiles is willing to roll with the punches, here), and complete disbelief curled around the disappointed anger (goddamn it, Dad).

And then something ridiculously mind-blowing happens.

Cora corners him during lunch, flanked by Lydia and Erica, and threatens him with debilitating humiliation and a lifetime of inescapable pranks if he ever so much as breathes a bad word about her brother again. This is not the ridiculously mind-blowing thing. 

No, that comes after.

That comes when Derek _fucking_ Hale decides to drop the bomb that Stiles may or may not inadvertently be why he obtained his newbie Deputy status. And, apparently, the animosity between them is one-sided on Stiles' part and is something that can make Derek's face twist into a really pitiful scowl that's too sad to be intimidating.

Goddamn _sad._

What the everloving _fuck,_ Derek fucking Hale.

* * *

Here is how Stiles decides to enlist Derek fucking Hale's help:

He has a conversation with his father that warps like old wood, that blackens and rots and decays and makes Stiles slam into his room to have a panic attack while his Dad goes for the tumblers and the Bad Day whiskey (goddamn it, Dad).

He does research. He chews on his pen until ink explodes on his tongue. He rinses out his mouth and has another fucking panic attack. He thinks about breaking the liquor cabinet instead of sleeping. He does more research, finds all the proverbial monsters hiding under the bed and decides he has to _do_ something.

He could do it on his own.

He and Scott could come up with some hairbrained scheme like they always do.

He and Scott talk on the phone until the small hours of the morning. Scott, with an air of self-satisfaction, coerces Stiles into speaking with Derek first, and then promises to _think_ about it (for shit's sake, Scott).

He also commiserates and offers a friendly ear and some decent advice about the Dad Thing, because they are bros and Scott is the _best._

The 'speaking with Derek' affair goes something like this:

"Three days ago you asked me why I don't like you."

"Yes."

"Okay, so, here's the deal. A tiny part of it might've actually been that I don't understand you, like, at all. And I feel like I have a bit of a better handle on that, now, but you're still kind of an asshole. With your general... _you_ -ness." Stiles sighs, "I've recently been informed that I am _also_ an asshole and need to get over myself. Which I'm taking under advisement, but that's not the point.

"Look, dude. You treat me like I'm an incompetent child, alright? Like I don't know shit and I should just, I dunno, sit at home and twiddle my thumbs like a fucking dope. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm not particularly good at the sitting around schtick."

"I've noticed," Derek says. A little wry. Soft around the edges, like a cube of sugar dissolving in a cup of tea.

What the everloving _fuck,_ Derek fucking Hale.

"Sure," Stiles says, trying to regain his equilibrium.

Derek shifts in his seat like he's uncomfortable, his lips quirk down but doesn't let the expression fully descend into frowning territory.

_Uncomfortable._

...

Has that been happening this whole time? Did Stiles just miss it? Or is it a new thing? If it is a new thing, _why?_

"You may not have noticed," Derek throws back eventually, "but I'm not that great at the. Words. Schtick."

Stiles snorts, "That might be the understatement of the century, dude."

Derek laughs. Not out loud, or in any discernable manner, but his eyes—they're laughing. Loudly. "Yes," he says, and the word is like a smile. Stiles' brain kind of stutters to a halt for a minute.

He clears his throat, turns his eyes to the road to take the odd, sticky pressure off of both of them, and murmurs, "I'm not a very patient guy, but. I'll shut up and wait you out, if you need me to."

"I can appreciate how difficult that must be for you."

"Ha. Funny how sarcasm magically unsticks your stupid tongue from the roof of your stupid mouth."

Derek hums. Stiles chances a peek. He's still laughing, without moving a goddamn muscle, like a freaky robot. It's kind of fascinating.

They don't speak again until they've reached the school, and Derek almost seems apologetic when he says, "See you," as he drops him off. He also seems determined.

Stiles gets the feeling that the conversation on the drive home will be interesting. It makes him antsy for the rest of the day. Scott's intrigued, and also stubborn about his part in this, which is stupid because Stiles totally did talk to Derek fucking Hale, what more does Scott want from him. But Scott can tell there's unfinished business there, and he is the type of person who could probably out-stubborn a tank, there's no pushing him. 

Mr Harris tries to give him detention, Stiles gets out of it by the skin of his freaking teeth, and is subsequently even more frustrated with his Dad than before. Which isn't fair. Sure, Mr Harris hates him because of his Dad, but that's on _Mr Harris._ And maybe a little bit on Stiles, who hasn't told his Dad about this development, and probably won't for the rest of his tenure at BHHS.

Whatever.

Stiles, again, does not bother to ditch his ride. Is that going to become a habit. That would suck. Derek's success rate is still higher than his, and trying to get away from him is _fun._

Huh. He just realized something.

"How come you've never told my Dad about me going all escape artist on you?"

Derek shrugs, his expression resembles nothing like Stiles is used to. He's not smiling or anything that startling, but there's a warmth there, maybe. Or maybe Stiles is imagining it. Or maybe it's always been there and Stiles never fucking noticed before.

Ugh.

"It's like hide and seek," Derek says eventually.

"Okay. That... explains about as much as it doesn't."

Derek's eyes are laughing again. "I like hide and seek," he says.

Derek fucking Hale, Stiles thinks.

What the everloving fuck, Derek fucking Hale, you big lug. What is wrong with you.

"What is wrong with you," Stiles says, because he crushed his brain-to-mouth-filter when he was maybe three years old in a fit of whimsy.

"Well, I've heard that I'm an asshole. And that I treat perfectly capable people like, uh, _ignorant children?_ Among other things."

"You think you're real cute, don't you?"

"Sure," Derek says, giving him a look that's one part sass and three parts so dry it's fucking dehydrating. "When the mood strikes me."

Stiles is startled into a laugh. Derek's lips actually twitch up for, like, 2.5 seconds, and he seems terribly pleased with himself afterword. As if making Stiles laugh and enjoy himself is actually gratifying.

Stiles' previous opinion of Derek has been smashed to fucking smithereens. The new one growing in its' place posits that Derek fucking Hale is a really weird dude. But maybe not so bad.

"My parents," Derek starts, and then gets cut off like his throat just doesn't know how to work after drudging up words with that much emotional weight. It takes him three minutes to start again, but Stiles is as good as his word: he shuts up and he waits. It isn't as awkward as it could be, but it isn't necessarily comfortable, either.

"After my parents died, it was just me and my sisters. The thought of losing them, losing more of my family, more people I cared about. The very idea was devastating. Especially when I, when I felt so guilty about what happened."

Which he shouldn't. He damn well _shouldn't:_ Stiles read that case file after their little détente the other day (the legality of doing so may have been highly questionable, but what the fuck ever), the only person who should be blamed for that travesty is _Katherine._

"Cora and Laura—they understood, because they felt the same way. And it became... habitual. Looking after them, reminding myself that they were alive and still here, trying to keep them safe." Something self-deprecating enters his voice when he says, "I had them bugged for a year."

_"What?"_

Derek's ears are a deep crimson, but only his ears. "It helped. To know where they were, to check in. I asked them first."

"Still," Stiles says. "That's not really the healthiest way to cope, dude."

"I know," Derek agrees. And then smiles. Actually fucking smiles. He has _bunny teeth,_ oh my God. It is a bright, blinding thing that makes the skin around his eyes crinkle before it slides into something a little smaller, warmer. "We got better."

"Good," Stiles says, almost unbidden. Derek looks as surprised as he is by the ferocity with which he speaks, but Stiles finds that he means it. Vehemently. "That's really good."

"Thank you," Derek sighs, all sentiment.

Jesus Christ, this guy.

Another minute or so passes before Derek continues. The silence is more than bearable, this time. It's actually kind of nice. What even.

"I care about you," Derek says.

_What_

"That's why—. It's not that I think you can't handle yourself," Derek inhales deep through his nose, exhales slow through his mouth. Stiles knows that technique. Stiles _uses_ that technique. "I don't like the idea of you getting hurt."

Aw, man. _Derek fucking Hale._ Stiles got this really wrong, didn't he?

Then, because mental jumps like these spring themselves on him without warning: 

"Wait, did you ever bug _me?"_ Stiles finds that he's not quite outraged - though he could become so very quickly depending on Derek fucking Hale's goddamn answer - since he's still a little busy being overwhelmed by the whirlwind of revelations.

"No," Derek says, and it sounds sincere, but he gets shifty around the shoulders barely three seconds later.

"But?"

"But your Father put a surveillance detail on you. Just while you're grounded. And. I may have. Uh, volunteered."

"Oh my God, you're such a creep," Stiles says, but there's no heat in it. His tone could even, on its' very best day, be called fond.

Derek offers a neutral hum in reply. His eyes are laughing again.

"Alright," Stiles decides, "so I totally misjudged you. A lot."

"I don't mind."

"Dude. I do. But, whatever. You are... creepily invested in my welfare—"

"Yes," Derek says immediately, firm.

Stiles laughs. "Alright, fine, okay. We should maybe establish some boundaries, though."

Derek nods. Good.

"And, uh, maybe also work on your delivery?"

Derek raises an inquiring eyebrow.

"You can kind of come off as really... patronizing. Condescending. Invalidating. You know."

"I didn't," Derek says, and scowls. Stiles decides not to take the scowl at face value and regards him very carefully. Dejected. Derek fucking Hale looks dejected like a stray goddamn dog who's just been whacked on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. Wow.

Shy, Scott had said. Second-hand, but still. Maybe emotionally clumsy should've been added to that endorsement of his character.

Stiles kind of feels like a dumbass.

"It's alright, dude."

Derek fucking Hale gives him a deeply dubious look that Stiles feels is extremely unwarranted.

"I mean, we worked it out, didn't we? Well. We're _working_ it out. And, hey, now that I know what's up I'm even willing to include you in on my little adventure in case it turns out to be super dangerous."

"You what."

Stiles' grin slices across his face like a sharp-edged blade, "Want to help me stop some bad guys?"

Derek's brows lower. "I want to keep you safe," he says flatly. 

"Uh-huh," Stiles agrees, as lightly as he is capable given that his heart has suddenly decided to take an interest in double-dutch, "we've established that. We've also established that I am a perfectly competent almost-adult who knows what he's doing."

Derek glowers. Grits out, "Fine."

Which is how Derek fucking Hale gets annexed into Stiles' hairbrained schemes. 

Scott is very smug about this development. Stiles finds it necessary to pinch Scott until that damnable little smirk gets the hell off of his stupid goddamn face.

* * *

Derek doesn't know how he feels about his boss after hearing out Stiles' vaguely bitter grounds for why they're doing this without the man. 

Stiles has enough evidence for a warrant, at the very least. There is a cult in Beacon Hills and very reasonable suspicion that they are both up to no good and escalating. Why would the Sheriff ignore that?

Stiles had shrugged, expression shuttered, "Dad doesn't really trust me much. It's kind of my fault, y'know? I guess I'm not honest enough with him. Boy who cried wolf, right?"

This gets added to the random mental notes Derek has collected over the course of his surveillance: the Sheriff is almost never home. Stiles takes care of himself, the cooking, the cleaning, the bills, possibly even the taxes. He packs a lunch for his Father every day. When Scott's Mother can't, and when Derek isn't intruding, Stiles typically drives Scott to school, makes him breakfast, forces him to tidy his room and do his laundry. He works part-time at that cooky dive on Everest and has a newspaper route that he hauls himself out of bed for at two in the morning.

Overworked might not even cover it. Responsible and mature, sure.

The Sheriff is Derek's boss, but he's also supposed to be Stiles' Dad. It's... complex. Worrying.

Someone should be looking after this kid. The unsettling thought that Derek, who is six years Stiles' senior and utterly gone on him despite his better judgement, might be the only one doing so is...

Kind of. Awful.

Given the turn of his thoughts, getting to know Scott is actually pretty cheering. Stiles and Scott share an obvious camaraderie, and while Scott may not be as unhealthily obsessive about it, it's clear Stiles' well-being is an invested concern for him, too.

Thank the Gods.

It takes them a few days to prepare, and to get through all the legalities that go along with a sting like this, in which time several things are discovered: 

Firstly, Stiles has a network of intimate acquaintances who adore relating gossip that ascends immediately into _very good intel_ the second Stiles gets his hands on it. 

Secondly, Stiles knows the dirty secrets of over half the important figures in town, and doesn't mind using this to his utmost advantage. (Derek doesn't mind it either, much to Stiles' happy surprise.)

Thirdly, Stiles is okay with continued surveillance so long as he is fully informed and can rescind his consent at any time. ("You're weird and maybe a little bit crazy," he'd said, "but if knowing that I'm safe makes you feel safe?" He'd shaken his head and huffed something faintly incredulous, like he couldn't believe he was conceding to this, but also couldn't quite help himself.)

Fourthly, he will allow continued pick up and drop off, despite no longer being grounded, but not every damn day. (Roscoe is a very important Jeep and Stiles will not stand for neglecting them. Neither will he stand for anyone else driving them. He is grudgingly alright with Derek hitching a ride, though, so long as he isn't being too annoying.)

Fifthly, he likes playing hide and seek, too. _("It's good practice,"_ he says, with the kind of grin that makes grown men quail and predators run for cover.)

Stiles and Scott are, off the record, front and center during the whole op. They ghost when it goes successfully and reinforcements are called in to help with arrests and etcetera, but not before Stiles grips Derek in a tight, startling embrace and says, "We couldn't have done this without you. Not, not like this. Thank you. For believing me, and for helping, and for everything else.

"Thank you," Stiles says, and then he's gone.

The Sheriff arrives on the scene looking poleaxed while Derek's still savouring the vivid tingle-echo of Stiles' body pressed against his.

"Really unexpected, huh," he says, perhaps a little ungraciously.

"I—uh, yeah. Yeah," the Sheriff rubs his hand over his mouth. "I mean, a cult in Beacon Hills?"

Derek hums.

"Do you. Do you know who ran this op?"

Since the papers never actually crossed the Sheriff's desk. Since Stiles took care of that, and Derek took care of the rest. Since he didn't really deserve to know, if he wasn't willing to stop for just _one second_ and listen.

"Nope," Derek says. While his incapability of expressing a natural range of emotion can be a hindrance, he has to admit that it does make him an exceptional liar.

"Well, whoever they were," Parrish ends up wandering in, no doubt to collect the Sheriff and give him a sitrep, "they did good. Saved three people and got it done clean. A few broken bones, but other than that, no casualties. No fatalities."

Stiles, Derek thinks with no small amount of awe, is very, very good.

The Sheriff doesn't know what he's missing. Maybe he never will. It's not up to Derek, or, for that matter, Stiles, to show him. He's gotta figure it out on his own.

To reward himself at the end of the exhausting, satisfying day, he texts Stiles an update and then asks if he can do a perimeter check around the Stilinski and McCall houses. Stiles texts back a very snarky, I'm laughing at you because you're ridiculous affirmative.

Derek smiles.

* * *

The Hales are holding a Christmas party.

This isn't really outside the scope of normalcy—what _is,_ however, is Cora Hale stalking up to Stiles and Scott in the hallway with an unholy glare and two crisp, fancy invitations.

Stiles thinks he's learned enough in Hale scowls to read hers as... welcoming. Or a distant cousin of welcoming, anyway.

They agree to go because _of course_ they do.

Scott teases him a bit about it, and then gets distracted by the new girl, Kira, and is such a sunshine-smiley dope about it that Stiles can't even tease him back.

Still, he feels the need to clarify, "She didn't invite me because of Derek," and, "Derek doesn't have anything to do with anything," and, "Seriously, dude, we're just friends. You know, like you wanted?"

Scott, before Kira walks by and his higher brain-functions are forever lost, says, "Uh-huh," and, "Sure, buddy," and, "Yeah, whatever you say," all with the tone of someone who doesn't believe him for a _second_ and is laughing at him in the kindest manner possible.

* * *

The Hale—well, it's not a house, really. More of a mansion. Anyway, it's not gaudy or too over-fussed. The decorations outside are a little chaotic, which makes them that much more charming, and inside everything's very cozy, despite all the open space.

It's nice. It has the essence of home. Christmas music is dancing throughout the room, there are already people gathered in clumps around the more comfortable areas. Some Stiles knows, some he doesn't.

Derek's talking to a group of people that's half Deputies and half (Stiles guesses) Laura's friends. Scott gets caught by Erica's friend, and fellow lacrosse player, Isaac.

Stiles, sensing an opportunity, mingles. He finds at least four people with the potential to be wonderful informants, and is satisfied well enough with that number to grant himself a bit of a break.

Derek finds him putzing around upstairs and neither stops him nor says anything, just follows as a silent shadow while Stiles explores. At this point, that's a normal state of being for them. It's become comforting, honestly. Which is an absurd thing to admit, even in the confines of one's own head, but whatever. Stiles is learning to stop worrying and love the weirdness.

He throws a few quips over his shoulder, which Derek responds to with expressions of combined bitchiness and sass. Not a very talkative day, Stiles decides. 

Derek has highs and lows: he never talks abundantly, but some days he'll respond to everything with at least one word, some days he'll communicate in an odd, pedantic way (Stiles' supposition is that he does this to make the idea of talking more enticing by turning it into a game), and some days he doesn't talk at all. Occasionally, Stiles will try to goad him into mouthing off, or else he'll fill the silence with chatter because that's what he _always_ does. Occasionally, he lets the hush settle.

Stiles isn't one for quiet, but it can be refreshing every once in awhile.

When Stiles tires of his mildly intrusive inspection, he lets Derek lead him back to the party, where there has been an outbreak of dancing. Struck by impulse, he pokes Derek to get his attention, holds out his arm in a grandiose manner, and says, "May I have this dance?"

 _Ha._ He has always wanted to say that.

Derek's eyes are laughing at him, even if his face could be etched from stone. Stiles feels like he's won something, anyway.

Derek takes his arm.

Stiles grins, and they sweep out onto the floor. Derek's pretty good, but Stiles is both surprised and gratified to learn that he's actually better. Clumsiness be damned, Stiles can _dance._

They get through two songs together before they take a few turns on the floor with other partners. Stiles dances flamboyantly and terribly with Scott, who has two left feet and steps on all his goddamn toes. 

After that, he takes a minute to sit and people-watch because fucking _ow._ Worth it, for hilarity's sake, but ow.

The mistletoe hanging is only half-heartedly adhered to by present company, there are smacking kisses on cheeks and a few laughing pecks. Scott is (un)lucky enough to be taken advantage of by both Erica and Isaac, while Stiles and Cora cackle in the background—it feels like a bonding moment, and he can honestly say that he is not averse to becoming friends with Cora Hale. She is a tough fucking cookie. Lydia and Laura have a pretty intense go at it that leaves nearly everyone but them either flushed or gawping. The only actual couple in the room saunter right up to it and demonstrate a cinematic dip-kiss, which is met with clapping and cheers and wolf-whistles. The couple looks very pleased with their show.

Derek and Laura dance like a fucking festival attraction, and both look like they're having fun doing it. They spend two songs riling each other, and everyone around them up. Then he dances with Cora, which is just as entertaining to watch in Stiles' opinion, because all they do is glare and grunt at each other like uncivilized monkeys while Derek tries to avoid getting his feet stabbed by her stilettos.

The Deputies mostly stick with each other. The few of Laura's friends that deign to dance are fleeting frivolous about it and will trade off before a song even ends, heads thrown back with joy writ clear across their faces. 

Erica dances with everyone who will allow it, even perfect strangers. Lydia doesn't dance in public lest she show a single hair out of place, which is both admirable and boring. Cora's murder-face dissuades anyone but Erica and her older brother from asking her.

Scott dances with whoever asks, and sits next to Stiles when he can get away with it. Stiles takes his chances to chat with him and make sure he's enjoying himself when he gets them, keeps him hydrated and doesn't let him near the obviously spiked punch, because friends don't let friends get drunk on Christmas.

Stiles dances once more with Derek before things settle down for gift-giving and goodbyes. Derek's eyes laugh at him, and he very nearly smiles. Stiles is having a _great_ fucking time.

He doesn't object to being herded into the kitchen after most presents are exchanged and the bulk of their company begins to leave, though he does start in on the querying ramble. Mostly to be an ass, partly to see Derek roll his eyes at him and click his fingers irritably.

It's fun to fuck with him, sometimes.

Derek hands him a box. It's blue, a little plain, and the card on the ribbon doesn't say _Merry Christmas,_ but _Happy Birthday._

"Dude," Stiles says, overcome. "Nobody _ever_ remembers. Not even Scotty remembers." And then he thinks about it for more than two seconds and gives Derek a mildly suspicious look. "I never told you my birthday was on Christmas."

Derek takes out his phone, pulls up Stiles' file like the creeper he is, and shows Stiles his own birthdate on the legal document.

"Derek fucking Hale," Stiles says. "You asshole."

Derek laughs his silent laugh.

Stiles opens the box. There are three first-editions inside and one of them is signed. "Aw, man," Stiles says, sniffs, traces his fingers over the gorgeous covers, "you're so much better at this than me. All I got you was spy equipment."

Which inspires Derek to laugh aloud. Stiles goes completely offline for the duration, staring in wide-eyed wonder as he tries to commit the sound to memory.

Oh. Oh, wow. He kind of wants to hear that sound for the rest of his life. He wants to be the _reason_ he hears that sound for the rest of his life.

"Stiles," Derek says when he's done laughing. The sound of it is spoonful of crystal sugar, log fire crackle, rich velvet chocolate slinking down your throat. Warmth blooms in his belly, blossoms hot on his cheeks, and he suddenly wants to kiss this man so badly it _aches._

Derek's watching him, his eyes glittering limestone in a deep, dark, moonlit cave. The clamour of people and music is distant, but pleasant. Stiles' muscles are throbbing with the day's extensive activities, a really good, well-worn exhaustion. He feels breathless, floaty, like if he just lifted up to his tippy-toes gravity would stop working on him.

For a moment, it's like dreaming. Like being a little kid. Everything feels _possible._

Stiles wants to kiss him.

"I want to kiss you," Stiles says, a little dizzy.

All of Derek's breath leaves him like he's been sucker-punched. Then, before Stiles has a chance to question it, Derek's surging forward, gripping the small of Stiles' back and the back of his neck, pressing their lips together with an almost desperate urgency. The kind of hunger that fully intends to devour.

Holy fucking hell, Derek fucking Hale.

It only takes him thirty seconds to make Stiles' knees give out, and his response to this is to _pick Stiles bodily up_ and set him on the counter. Stiles pants a laugh into Derek's mouth, Derek smiles against his lips and then teases Stiles' tongue with his teeth.

Stiles moans, shivers, digs his fingernails into Derek's shoulderblades.

"Oh, my God!" Scott says, because Stiles' luck is a goddamn atrocity.

"Fuck," Stiles breathes, ducking his face into Derek's shoulder to hide.

"I _knew_ it."

"Shut up," Stiles whines at him. "You're such a jerk."

"Uh-huh," Scott says, in that way that means he's being a fucking _smart-ass._ "I just wanted to tell you Erica's giving me a ride home."

"Sure," Stiles says, pissy. "Now go away."

"Have fun," Scott chirps on his way out.

For shit's sake, Scott.

Stiles heaves a sigh, kisses the hinge of Derek's jaw, pulls away enough to get a good look at him. His ears are the colour of raspberry juice, but he's grinning. Bunny teeth and laughing eyes and savage pleasure.

"I want a nap," Stiles says, because good days can still be _long_.

Derek cups Stiles' cheek, kisses the edge of his brow, soft and tender, like it's normal, like they've done it a thousand times. "Here?" He asks, all kindness.

"Yes," Stiles says, so firmly that Derek's eyes sparkle with mirth. Stiles tugs on Derek's collar a little and hopes, "With you?"

Derek smiles a sunrise. "Yes."

Thus begins Stiles' relationship with Deputy Derek _fucking_ Hale.

(Cora sends a picture of her big brother and his new beau cuddled up in bed to the group chat.

Lydia demands payment. Erica and Isaac are in shock. Boyd does not take part in such shenaniganery. Their newest addition, Scott, exudes a great deal of smugness in emoji form.

Cora texts: UGH, at all of them, because they deserve it.

 _You still owe me 200$,_ is Lydia's immediate reply.

"If you don't let me sleep," Stiles mumbles from underneath her big lug of a brother, "I will tell Laura about the fish."

"Stiles," Cora hisses, "how the hell do you know about that."

"Need to fucking know, Cora Hale," Stiles tells her sleepily. "And you do not need to fucking know."

Cora, wisely, retreats.

Stiles, happily, goes back to cuddling with Derek and fucking napping.)

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen Derek being a Christmas baby, and wanted to change it up a little
> 
> Also, Merry Christmas!! 🎄🎄🎄


End file.
